


Healing

by CozyCryptidCorner



Series: The Water-Horse [2]
Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Everything's Good, Exophilia, F/M, Female Reader, Human/Monster Romance, Kelpie - Freeform, Like ugh get a room already, Misunderstandings, Monster Boyfriend, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Outdoor Sex, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 21:24:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17352860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: You aren't sick anymore, but there is still a dull cloud hanging over your life. Trying to move on from a family death is difficult, even more so since guilt accompanies your every move. What does help is having someone besides you, helping you repair and care for the ancient cabin that you inherited, selflessly, without asking for anything in return.Maybe you are beginning to love him. But you don't really know how to approach that topic.





	Healing

**Author's Note:**

> Ya'll
> 
> Unlike Tumblr, I can see the traffic going through my fics on here. It really discourages me when I see people reading my things without leaving a kudo or a comment, because I truly appreciate feedback from everyone!

 

 

At first, Riaghan only calls you only by your full first name.

 He says it tentatively, unsure, as though a simple mispronunciation would insult you into running away. Almost as though he believes he is not worthy to say it. At this point he only brushes his hands against yours in accidents, apologizing quickly after your skin connects. This often happens since he insists on helping you out in the kitchen and garden, working close enough as though he wishes the incidents would occur.

 

Then he calls you  _love,_  perhaps by mistake. Riaghan is carefully slicing vegetables for dinner while you set the table. The pan sizzles with oil as it heats up, your stomach growling with emptiness from a hard day’s work. As you open the silverware drawer, Riaghan gestures in your direction without looking and says, “pass me a spoon, love?”

 

“Here,” you say as you hand him a carved bamboo spoon, barely managing to keep your tone casual. The two of you return to your separate jobs as though nothing happened, Riaghan humming a melodic song you aren’t familiar with. You don’t think that he even realizes what he said.

 

Since your appetite has only just returned in full force, it takes a little while for you to finish all the food on your plate. Riaghan eats fewer vegetables, his meat just cooked enough that a reasonable person would not think him insane. For a horse raised in a lake out in the back acre of your grandfather’s land, he has impeccable table manners. He eats like a princess, though throughout dinner, eyes every bite you take in your mouth as though cataloging it. Even though he finishes his food first, he observes you as though measuring how much nutrients you end up consuming.

 

After dinner, as per usual, he helps you clean. While filling the sink with water, he glances over at you. “What did the doctors say today?”

 

You had taken the train into the nearest city to get a medical graduate’s opinion. Briefly, you consider lying to him about the severity of the disease you fought off. “Well,” you stack the plates and silverware, “I did test positive for that mutated flu virus, though most of it is dead now.”

 

Riaghan hums, prompting you to continue.

 

“I have some more pills I need to take to avoid the risk of a recession.” The bottle is safely in the bathroom upstairs, along with the unused prescriptions from your grandfather.

 

“I’ll make some tea,” Riaghan says suddenly, drying his pale hands. He puts a blue speckled kettle under the sink faucet and fills it to the brim, fingers skimming over the tea box.

 

“Where did you learn to…” you gesture vaguely in his direction while he ignites the gas stove.

 

“After you left,” Riaghan pauses for a moment as though collecting himself, “awhile after you left, my mother died.” He clears his throat, clearly not wishing to continue.

 

The confession feels like a dull kick in the throat, like an echo of when you got the phone call.  _The_  Phone Call.  _It is my responsibility to inform you that your grandfather has passed_  phone call. You immediately look down at your hands, knowing there are no words you can say to ease the pain of reliving his nightmare.

 

“I ended spending more time with your grandfather, and he taught me how to be…” Riaghan sets the kettle down on the stove with a tone of finality, “human.”

 

He smells like the forest, the crisp and green scent reminiscent of misty dawn. Settling your cheek on his back, you close your eyes and breath in. Fingers tangle together in front of his chest as you tightly embrace him, his entire being freezing as though he is afraid. Your name sounds like a prayer when he says it, the end syllable bleeding into the night like a question.

 

“You looked like you could use a hug,” you explain, squeezing him tightly before letting go.

 

“Tha-” his voice cracks up a pitch, before clearing his throat and attempting again, “thank you.”

 

The tea is one of your grandfather’s own concoctions, most of the ingredients coming from his garden. You haven’t had the heart make any attempts in replicating it, so you merely shrug as the supply is steadily depleted. Riaghan hands you a mug, sitting on the ancient armchair furthest from the fireplace, staring idly at the flames. There are thousands of questions you could ask him now, but as always, you hold your tongue.

 

Once the tea is done, the mugs are nestled in the sink, you head to bed. In the dim glittering of the moonlight, Riaghan’s horse form slithers through the clearing like a pitch eel in the dewy grass. Though he used to sleep downstairs on the couch while you were ill, he recently began to retreat back to his pond once the day is over. You wish you could approach that topic, to say what, you don’t know. An offer to stay? On your couch, away from his home? Real classy, lass.

 

You shuffle quietly to your grandfather’s room, flipping on the light. Eyes blurry with sleepiness, you gaze at the dusty furniture, the wooden bookshelf with the ancient books, and the antique writing desk you were never allowed to touch. Then you look at the bed, completely stripped of linens and quilts, mattress bare and naked pillows tossed senselessly to the side.

 

Grandda died in his sleep, you were told. Peacefully.  _The best way to go,_  anyone would agree. The coroner’s wife and son had cleaned the room for you, washed the blankets and sheets so the stench of death would not linger. Even so, you don’t stray further from the doorframe, hugging your arms against your chest as though the pressure would stop the strangled sobs that are clawing their way into your throat.

 

You turn off the light and shut the door, returning to your bed and wrapping yourself in the puffy blankets, laying your head down on the pillow and squeezing your eyes shut. Even though you dream, your brain is still hesitant with the idea of Riaghan. The images flashing through your eyes are domestic in nature, nothing even remotely sinister crossing your mind as you rest. Instead, it’s your raven-haired horse boy, waist deep in the lake, holding a little raven-haired child.

 

The alarm clock to the side of your bed goes off, and another day begins. A note reminding you to take your pills is on the refrigerator, situated right next to an ancient drawing of Wonder Woman a seven-year-old version of you made. Begrudgingly, you turn around and head back upstairs, to the cabinet over your bathroom’s sink.

 

And the previous days repeat. You eat breakfast on your own, and then go out and work in the garden, a second pair of gloves set to the side. Riaghan usually shows up a couple of minutes after, his lithe form trotting around the house, so you don’t witness the transformation. The morning is spent in the dirt, checking for weeds and transplanting sprouts. Riaghan doesn’t eat lunch, though he sits across from you on the table as you do. In the afternoon, you work on scraping the tacky old wallpaper off the bathroom wall. Dinner. Bed. Again and again.

 

So today you decide to mix things up a bit. Not that the mundane repetition has been bad, no, with everything going on in your life, it’s probably helped the last fraying fiber of your sanity stay strong. Nothing too crazy, but instead of going straight to the garden, you set yourself down on the opposite side of the house. Tucking your knees below your chin, you idly watch the clouds float by as you wait.

 

You hear him approach. The rustle of the unclipped grass is a privilege he gives, since lethal predators only makes noise when they choose to. You snap your head up as he rounds the corner, his head cocked to the side, clearly perplexed by your change in schedule. Riaghan brays once, stomping a hoof against the soft earth.

 

“Don’t mind me.” You carefully pick at the grass growing against the foundation of the house.

 

He watches you for the barest of moments, then accepts your presence. You have only seen him shift exactly twice, both times you didn’t actually  _comprehend_  what exactly you were witnessing. Now, mentally braced, eyes wide with curiosity, you watch his body compress, limbs and muscles contorting into something smaller. His raven coat fades into pale skin, hooves splitting apart into fingers, his glossy mane turning into a sweep of hair. Riaghan grunts quietly as his bones realign, a sickening crack coming from his spine.

 

You want to jump up and run to him, to hold his face in your hands and whisper that everything is going to be alright, but you claw at the dirt in an attempt stay still. Once it is over, he remains still, face down, on his knees, his chest heaving with exhaustion. It only takes a few deep breaths for him to recuperate, for him to sit up and give you the smallest of smiles. Before he can say anything, you blurt out what’s on your mind.

 

“I didn’t realize it hurt you to change.”

 

Riaghan looks down once more, as though somehow ashamed. He clears his throat once, then nods, tightly. “It only hurt to turn back human.” His tone is light, trying to convince you it isn’t nearly bad as you think it is, though you know better.

 

You nod, slowly, pretending to accept his flimsy statement. Taking a deep breath, steeling your nerves, you ask him a question. “Instead of working, I think we both deserve a day off. Why don’t we watch something on the telly? Make a cake? Something that doesn’t involve actual work.”

 

He clears his throat. “My clothes would be a start.”

 

“Oh.” He’s very naked, you just realize. “Um.” You find the little chest to the side and open it, tossing Riaghan the contents. Though you had been staring at his bare form, something about him putting on clothes is an extra step of intimacy you cannot handle, so you avert your eyes until he is done.

 

The television is an ancient box, with antennae as long as your arm poised on top of the metal frame. The sound is always accompanied by just enough fuzz to be annoying, its only receiving channels are BBC One, BBC Two, BBC News, BBC Politics, CBeebies, and the local news broadcaster. BBC Three can sometimes appear on screen, though only on the clearest days can both sound and picture warble in from the air. Old Star Trek reruns dominate the first channel’s schedule, and the cheesy effects paired with the overacting of William Shatner are a welcome and effective method of forgetting some of your problems.

 

You pull one of the old knitted blankets around your shoulders, glancing over at Riaghan as he moves to sit on the opposite chair. Loudly clearing your throat to get his attention, you pat the cushion next to you in an invitation. He looks at the spot, awkwardly, but complies, settling against the tweed fabric at a respectable distance from where you lounge.

 

Even though you are plenty entertained by the random disintegration of multiple shirts throughout the episodes, you find your eyes growing heavy. There is no definite moment in between quietly resting and falling dead asleep, but you wake up suddenly, Riaghan’s arms wrapped around your waist, hands laid on the small of your back. Your cheek is pressed up against his chest, the gentle rise and fall of his chest lulling your stress away. His legs lay beside yours, blankets tangling with your limbs.

 

The sun radiates a delicious warmth down from the window, the yellow light hitting his hair in such a way it looks like Riaghan has a halo. You place your hands under your chin, watching his sleeping face, listening to the Vulcan harp serenade on the telly. His lashes are thick and long, his cheekbones sharp and golden in the sunlight. Effortless beauty, you observe, and you can understand why the legends that surround his people are so malicious. If all kelpies were just as gorgeous as he, then everyone would tie rocks to their necks and launch themselves in the water. Maybe the murderous stories were merely  _fairy tales_  to keep people from thinking about some cross-species action. Either that or kelpies are indeed a special breed of predator, beauty being only one tool in their deadly arsenal.

 

Riaghan’s eyes open, straining against the light. A smile tugs at his mouth, though he tries his best to stay stoic as his fingers tangle through your hair. Your scalp tingles pleasantly at his movements, any tense muscle immediately relaxing at his ministrations.

 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you,” you apologize, laying your cheek back against his chest.

 

He hums in response, the ghost of a smile fading away. Quickly, he turns his face away from yours, eyes a reflection of regretful emotions. “Maybe we should get back to work.”

 

Perplexed, you cock your head. “Why?”

 

“Aren’t you preparing to sell this land?” Riaghan’s voice is quietly strained. “We should finish fixing up the house.”

 

Oh. You suddenly feel shame, deep and loathing, fill your stomach. It isn’t that you forgot about selling the house, exactly, you just hadn’t bothered thinking about the logistics yet. And yet, with the realization that Riaghan is helping you hand his home off to some other sod who could possibly want to destroy him, the shame pairs with guilt and bleeds your heart dry.

 

Snuggling closer to him, you drum your fingers against where his collarbone and shoulder meet. “I’m not selling this place, I’ve decided.”

 

“Oh?” There’s hope in his question, a tone that you’ve never heard him use since the two of you had met. It is as though he quietly resigned himself to that fate long ago, never putting up a fuss against your decision, not even mentioning an alternate possibility.

 

“This is my home.” As soon as you speak the words, you know them to be true. This place has been your home since you first stepped through the threshold when you were but a toddling babe. Years of separation has done nothing but increase your desperation to be here. Your very soul is in this land, to leave would be to rip that piece away from you.

 

Your confession stirs something within him. A lightness returns, as though a heavy burden has been lifted from his shoulders. Riaghan arms tighten around your body, and he holds you close, letting loose a torrent of emotions he had not allowed himself to feel. The two of you stay that way for the rest of the afternoon, bodies pressed against each other until you grow hungry for food.

 

The next day he seems… freer, almost. His movements are fluid and graceful, light and cheerful. At every possible chance, he casually moves closer to you, though he is careful not to overstep any boundaries. When you hug him goodnight, his muscles no longer tense at the contact, but instead melt against yours. Again, every time you embrace, you debate asking him to stay, to never leave your arms again. You don’t.

 

You start getting phone calls on the landline from someone who wants to buy your land. Ignoring them may be the easy way out for sure, but you reason that after everything that has happened recently, you deserve that clear path. You ignore the specific numbers that flash on the decade-old landline, only listening to the first handful of messages before deleting all of them without so much as a second glance. You expect the calls to start dropping in frequency, though for a long while, they don’t.

 

Fortunately, the person gave up trying to call you. Unfortunately, they decided to pay a house visit instead. Even more unfortunately, since you hadn’t bothered listening to their phone messages, you didn’t catch them warning you about their plans. So when someone starts pounding on your door, you drop the bag of chips you had been stuffing in your face in surprise.

 

Riaghan gives you the  _I’ll take care of this, don’t worry_  look, kneeling down in front of the bag and beginning to clean the mess. Before you go answer the door, you give the spilled chips one last dejected gaze, stopping in the mirror for a moment to make sure you look at least marginally presentable. A stocky looking man with one of those outdated handlebar mustaches is waiting for you on the porch, a briefcase in hand. You open the door, straightening your spine and standing to your full height. Luckily, you stand just a bit taller than douche-stash.

 

“Can I help you?” You ask, hands on your hips as you look the intruder over.

 

“I certainly think so,” the man gave you one of those smiles that he would not consider to be condescending, but guess what, it totally is condescending, and says, “I’m here to inquire about the land. You are looking to sell.”

 

You don’t beat around the bush. “Not anymore.”

 

“Is that so?” The man’s entire demeanor shifts, his eyes narrowing as though he is scrutinizing how easy it would be to pummel you to death. “I do hope that you will change your mind, young lady.”

 

“I don’t think I will, old man.” Your tone switches to match your opponent’s, crossing your arms and standing a bit on your toes, so you seem just a little bit taller.

 

“Is there a problem?” Riaghan comes up behind you, placing on hand on your shoulder, the other on the doorframe. His body blocks the rest of the entrance so that the man cannot even look into the house without being obvious about it.

 

The man gives him the once-over, turning his gaze back at you. “I didn’t realize you weren’t living alone,” he grinds out. Not sounding disappointed, exactly, but somehow inconvenienced.

 

“This is my boyfriend.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop to think of a way to imply that Riaghan is your boyfriend without explicitly saying it. Riaghan’s fingers tighten around your shoulder blade, though you don’t turn around to see his facial expression.

 

“I see.” The man stares at you, then at Riaghan once more. “Good day to both of you, then.”

 

You don’t return the goodbye, quietly shutting the door in that man’s face. Whirling around, you face Riaghan, eyes wide, hands folded, and fingers fidgeting. There is a small, miniscule smile that tugs at the edges of his mouth.

 

“So,” Riaghan says, “boyfriend.”

 

 _A boy who just happens to be my friend_  is the easy way out of the hole you just dug. It’s on the tip of your tongue, all you have to do is take a deep breath and open your mouth. You take a step further, placing both hands on his shoulders, fully prepared to explain to him that you were bluffing. Instead, you lean in, stopping only a hair’s width away from his mouth. A boy who just happens to be-

 

“I mean, unless you don’t want to be my boyfriend,” you whisper against his lips instead.

 

“Boyfriends are lovers,” Riaghan states, as though trying to give you one last out.

 

“That they are,” you respond readily.

 

There is a single moment of silence, the entire world standing still. Then Riaghan closes the minuscule space and presses his lips against yours, his hands settling on your waist. The kiss is chaste, over far too soon. As Riaghan pulls away, he gazes into your eyes as though looking for any sign he should let you go. In response, you pop up to quickly kiss him once more, wrapping your arms around his chest and holding him close.

 

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, laying your head against his chest.

 

“For what, love?” He questions, the pet name sending pleasant shivers down your spine.

 

“For almost selling your land.” This is his home more so than yours. You can always flounce your way back to the city, sunglasses on, into the arms of a job and an apartment. Where does Riaghan go if someone tries driving him off the land? He was raised here, you were only a visitor.

 

“You didn’t. It’s over.” Those two sentences lift a slight amount of guilt, though you know he doesn’t want you to think he was ever angry with you.

 

From then on, he uses the word  _love_  when he wants your attention, dropping it casually in a sentence. He sneaks up on you, using every predatory instinct he has, seizing your waist and pulling you close in surprise hugs. You always shriek, always caught off guard, bewilderment melting into laughter. In the evenings after dinner, you lay against his body, relaxing against his chest. He pets your hair as the two of your whisper about your lives and your futures.

 

Riaghan calls you  _my darling_  in an experiment, his bare body pressed up against yours, the soft purr of his accent sending little shocks of pleasure down your spine. The way you respond, the sweet little moan that emanates from your throat heats his body and awakens parts of him he hadn’t realized existed. He buries his face in your neck and bites gently at your skin, relishing your taste.

 

The stars are brighter than you have ever seen before. A shimmering green light overtakes the sky, an aurora borealis illuminating the night almost as brightly as day. The grass is cool enough to keep your body from melting as heated friction blossoms between your bare thighs, the soft sounds of nature drowning in your heaving breath. Your bra is gone, tossed somewhere away from your wreathing arms and you are naked as the day you were born.

 

“My darling,” he whispers again, kissing a trail from your ear to the tip of your chin, ending the line with pressing his mouth to yours. “Show me what you need. Show me what you  _want_.”

 

You can only offer a weak whimper in response, your insides becoming molten putty. Folding your hand over his, you lead it down your body, past your stomach, to that spot in between your legs. His fingers feel around your weeping slit, testing strokes to see what pleasures you the most. You show him your clit, guiding his fingers over the bud, your muscles shuddering with little blooms of electricity. There is a small sadistic streak inside of him, as he seems to deeply enjoy unraveling your sanity with every touch he makes.

 

His cock is swollen and begging for attention. You close your hand around the shaft, your hand becoming wet with his precum. Riaghan’s eyelashes flutter, his breath hitching as one of your fingers trace a vein that pulses with his pounding heart. When you run your finger over his leaking tip, his hips buck forward. His voice gives out a muffled cry as he buries his face in your neck, your skin hot with his panting breath.

 

“I love you,” he whimpers as you begin to pump his cock.

 

You kiss the left half of his mouth. “I love you.”

 

It must either be his first time, or at least a long while since he last had sex because he is quick to cum with little effort. No apologies fall his lips, no flimsy excuses are said to shut you up. His still-shaking fingers find your clit again, teasing it with a lazy smile on his lips. Little bursts of heat run from your core and through your spine, your back arching in pleasure. Your legs open wider to give him better access, showing him how best to slip his fingers inside. With every moment, his cock becomes more and more swollen as arousal burns through his blood.

 

You grab his shoulders, shoving him to the side and flipping him over. His cock is deliciously hot and hard against your bare pussy, a shiver running through your spine as you straddle his waist. He stares at you with excited eyes, his chest shuddering with bated breath as you grind your dripping cunt against his crotch. A sigh of desperate relief escapes his lips as skin contact is made, his hands grasping your waist as though anchoring himself to reality.

 

Your fingers trace the contours of his pale chest, running along his collarbone, down the crevice of his pecs. The sound of his whimper as you brush over his nipples sends pleasant little pinpricks down your spine. You bend down and press your mouth against his Adam’s apple, scraping your teeth against his skin.

 

“Please,” Riaghan begs, his hips bucking up as you suck a hickey on his shoulder,  _”please.”_

 

Raising your hips, you give his cocks a couple of pumps for good riddance. Then, gently, you guide yourself downward, settling over his waist, his member sliding inside with ease. It’s been so long for you that just the initial thrust causes you to pause, taking in a deep breath, bracing your hands on his shoulders. Your knees dig into the grass, the cold soil as soft as a mattress, and you thrust forward. Riaghan moans, his fingers digging into your skin, eyes almost rolling to the back of his skull. The grinding against your clit is euphoric, the way his waist thrust up to meet yours is borderline heavenly.

 

You take one his hands off your waist and push it back to your clit, his fingers massaging your sensitive skin until the edges of your eyes blur. All it takes is a little more hip rolling, the pad of his index hitting your clit  _just so._  Your core is tight, your breaths are ragged and hot, the night crashing down around you as sudden as a snap. A raspy cry is all you can manage as an orgasm trembles through your muscles, ripples of pleasure bursting through your body like waves on a beach.

 

He sits up then, your body still shaking with aftershocks. As though you would simply fade away if he did not, Riaghan’s arms tighten around you as he presses his lips to yours in a sloppy kiss. Sperm, hot and wet, fill your insides to the brim as he cums. Rocking his body against yours as he spills, he moans your name into the night like a fevered declaration.  _I love you, I love you, I love you._

 

You kiss him, biting on the bottom of his lip as the tremors of his orgasm pass. His body shivers against yours, though you know it’s not from the cold. The taste of him, the smell of him, the sight of him overwhelms your senses, and you want to collapse against his chest, falling asleep here and now in the cool air of the night.

 

“I love you,” Riaghan states, hand coming up to stroke your cheek. He lays down against the ground, and you follow, settling your body against his for warmth.

 

“I love you.” You let out an exhausted breath, snuggling closer.

**Author's Note:**

> *Youtuber voice* If you liked what you read, smash that kudos button! Want to tell me how much you liked this fic? Leave me a comment! Want to keep tabs on my writings? Subscribe and you get a free (yes, FREE) email every time I publish a fic! Want me to write more? Shower me with praise because positive reinforcement motivates me to work!
> 
> There is definitely a lot more that can be done with this series. Will I get to it? Who knows, not me.


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